


excuses are easy, young man, apologies are harder

by rillrill



Series: Revolutionary Whore [1]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Coming In Pants, Discipline, M/M, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-20
Updated: 2015-11-20
Packaged: 2018-05-02 12:09:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5247785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rillrill/pseuds/rillrill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Sir,” Alexander says, and his voice is nearly a purr now but the smirk on his face is as bright and arrogant as ever. “I understand. And I apologize for my lateness, and my… disrespect.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	excuses are easy, young man, apologies are harder

**Author's Note:**

> So this is loosely based on something that actually happened, although I flipped the roles (basically, Hamilton and Washington actually parted ways during the revolution because Washington was ten minutes late to a meeting and a fed up Hamilton essentially went "YOU CAN'T FIRE ME, I QUIT" and stormed out, and half an hour later Washington went running out after him to apologize). 
> 
> The thing about the boat is also true.
> 
> In all other regards, I am, how you say, the trash of the thing.

Alexander Hamilton has kept him waiting for ten minutes. Ten minutes, to the rest of the world, is nothing. But George is conscientious; he is conscious of how much time he takes up, knows how long it takes to get from place to place. He does not keep his men waiting. He has expectations, and he holds himself to the same standards he does his men.

The thing is, Alexander’s been pushing it lately, flouting the closeness inherent in their relationship. He’s getting cocky, has taken to pestering George at all hours of the day and night, requiring meetings to discuss some ephemera, this or that which could always wait another day. And then there was the matter of the boat. 

Alexander bought a boat.

He and his wife moved in across the river, and then they bought a boat. And now he takes it upon himself to row his little boat across and come hammering on the door whenever a spare thought takes him. Because heaven forfend Young Master Hamilton wait until the next convenient opportunity to burden his commander with his problems. Hamilton doesn’t think twice; when an urge strikes him he simply follows it, no forethought or tact. 

George is too tired, too overworked, too goddamn old for this.

So he’s been waiting for ten minutes. Ten minutes he could spare for another decorated commander, but not so much for the cocky (brilliant, exhausting) soldier who mans his quill. And when the hand on his pocket watch ticks past the eleventh minute, he hears Alexander tromping up the stairs, ricocheting off one of the walls in his haste — and then the study door flies open and there he is, hair mussed, cheeks pinker from the winter wind, waistcoat askew, carrying the cold with him on his clothes and looking wild-eyed and thoroughly unabashed for his lateness.

“Alexander.” George modulates his tone as he rises from his desk. _Keep it steady, Washington, no need to let him know how put out you are_. He grips the back of the chair a little too tightly as he pushes it back in. “You kept me waiting.”

Alexander blinks. “Sir. I don’t believe I—”  
  
“Ten minutes, Alexander,” he says, tapping the desk, the piles of parchment and half-rendered plans left there. Too much mess. He hates it, but doesn’t have the time to straighten up anymore. “These are dangerous times. Do you realize that? Ten minutes could mean the difference between life and death.”  
  
“I’m sorry.” Alexander takes a breath, looks as if he’s biting something else back, a more barbed retort. “Sir. I apologize.”  
  
Having cleared a rudimentary space, George leans on his desk, arms folded in his shirtsleeves. His waistcoat hangs at the door. If he’s the one who should feel vulnerable in this situation, he doesn’t; if anything, it’s Alexander who shifts back and forth on the balls of his feet, as if he’s uncertain of which way to look or where to focus. He seems to compromise by fixing his gaze in the center of George’s forehead. Which — it’s transparent, all right. Faking eye contact through the nerves. Like George didn’t learn this himself years ago.  
  
“Right, then,” George says simply. “Do you have the papers I require?”  
  
“Yes!” Alexander practically shouts, opening his jacket much too quickly and producing a handful of folded sheets. George takes them, rifles through them. Coded language, coded correspondence. Nothing he can’t look over later. “Sir, if I may, I wanted to ask—”  
  
“If this is about the issue of a command post, Alexander,” George cuts him off, “you know where I stand.” He looks up at Alexander over the pages in his hand, sees him deflate even before he finishes the thought. “Your work is too valuable to me. You’re too valuable to me, son.”  
  
“Sir, in my last letter from Laurens, he spoke of a—”  
  
“You talk about John Laurens an awful lot, Alexander,” George says, beginning to lose patience. Alexander is still shifting back and forth, and all George wants is for him to plant his feet, stay still. He feels an insatiable urge to _grab_ this young man, shake him, dig fingers into his arms and force him to still himself. Hamilton’s hair is still a mess from the elements outside and his teeth dig into his lower lip as George fixes him with a harsher glare. “Your relationship with Laurens notwithstanding, I hope I make myself clear. A military command is not currently on the table for you. If you still have complaints on the matter, make them to your wife. Or to your… Laurens.”  
  
There’s a silence in the room, a flicker in the lamp light that throws a shadow across Alexander’s face. And then he’s nodding, silently, moving closer with that feral-tomcat glint in his eye, a sort of velvet smoothness to his walk. The other side of Hamilton, the side George has only ever observed in action, never had turned on him himself.  
  
The things he’s heard just may be true.

“Sir,” Alexander says, and his voice is nearly a purr now but the smirk on his face is as bright and arrogant as ever. “I understand. And I apologize for my lateness, and my… disrespect.”

George feels his eyebrows furrow. He’s barely aware of his own movements, his own body feels like a foreign agent. It’s betraying his ideals, his intentions. His marriage. _Martha_. Nope. He sets the papers down onto a growing stack, pushes himself away from the desk and draws himself up to his full height to look down into Alexander’s face. Closer, closer. Too close.  
  
Hamilton doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t pull away, and in one swift motion George is gripping him around the waist, his other hand drifting up to card a handful of wind-whipped dark hair. “Respect is tantamount to patriotism,” George says, and he’s aware that it barely makes sense but they’re the only words that come out. “We won’t win this war if a colonel doesn’t know his place.” And the thing is, this isn’t what he believes, not really; he’s only a general on the battlefield. At times like these, he feels more like — well, not a father figure. Certainly not a father to Hamilton, who is looking up at him with those velvet eyes and cheeks flushed a little pinker but not from the winter wind, not now.  
  
And it’s not as if he hasn’t heard the rumors, hasn’t heard what they call him. _Hamilton’s immaculate daddy_ , went the pamphlet, and the rumors only continue to circulate and grow. That George, despite his — affliction — somehow fathered this bastard son of the revolution, that his favoritism is some sort of nepotistic affect. No. No, he may not be Hamilton’s father, he may have no deeper connection to this young man than the blood they’ve both seen shed on the battlefield and the late nights they’ve spent in hushed collaboration, but in this moment, he has never been more grateful for that.  
  
In another split-second, thoughtless motion, Alexander is lunging up at him with an odd sort of gracelessness, and then his mouth is on George’s, their eyes sliding shut in tandem as their lips make contact. It’s strange and foreign and feels so wrong, and George wants more, wants it faster and harder and he opens his mouth obediently as Alexander nips at his bottom lip. _Alexander_. He’s all sharp teeth and smooth skin cut with sandpaper stubble, and George tightens the hand in his hair as he reverses their positions, backing Hamilton against the desk. Alexander is panting and his hands scrabble at George’s waist, digging into the starched fabric of his shirt as they press against each other, and all George wants is more, wants to keep doing this, wants to see how far this goes.  
  
Alexander kisses like he looks: messy and careful and practiced all at once, an incongruous blend of masculine toughness and almost feminine delicacy. It’s everything and nothing like George has ever experienced or wanted and he deepens the kiss as he grasps Alexander’s waist a little harder. It’s making him feel — strange. Aroused, but not in the normal sense, not in the respectful way he’d want to bed a woman. Rather, it feels almost confrontational, like so many years’ worth of gripes and arguments come to a natural head. 

Because this is — Hamilton has a way of working his way under your skin, George thinks as his pants tighten, his arousal becoming more and more apparent as Alexander ruts against him. The things he always heard, suspected, about him and Laurens were apparently true; Hamilton rolls his hips against George’s with practice, like he’s done this so many times that he doesn’t have to look or concentrate. He kisses, harder, more insistently, and begins to work his way down Alexander’s exposed throat, in search of some sort of control, to regain his command over the situation.

Halfway down his jaw, lips and teeth against the pulse point beneath Alexander’s ear, and George seems to have hit paydirt, judging from the gasps he’s producing. He sucks a little harder, nips at the sensitive skin there just below the earlobe, and Hamilton _moans_ , his head falling back and his grip on George’s shirt tightening. Sensing an opportunity, George pulls away, leaving Alexander there against the desk, flushed and visibly aroused and breathing heavily, his pupils like full moons and his hair even messier than before. He’s staring at George like he’s never seen him before, and George, perhaps predictably, has never felt so vulnerable.

He clears his throat. “Alexander,” he says, attempting to keep some gravitas in voice despite his own erection, straining against his pants. “Your candor and behavior tonight have been… unacceptable. You kept me waiting ten minutes while you wasted time doing God knows what, you showed me disrespect here in my own office, you—”

“I’m sorry, sir.” He’s not sorry. The gleam in his eye betrays him every time.  
  
“You _interrupt_ me, Alexander.” George pauses, the silence in the room so pregnant he expects it to give birth any moment. “This is a matter that calls for disciplinary intervention.”  
  
Alexander drags teeth over his bottom lip, takes a visible deep breath. “Do what you have to.”  
  
Before George can think twice, he’s spinning Alexander around and guiding him down over the front of his desk. There are guidelines, there are protocols, and he’s observing none of them, following only the urges in his own id — he’s doing a Hamilton, as the soldiers call it, so to speak. Hamilton’s own ass is outlined so firmly in his tight pants, bent at a 90-degree angle over the space cleared in the center of the desk, and George keeps one hand heavy on his lower back as he slowly traces a figure eight there. And then he takes a deep breath and, firmly, without hesitation, lands two sharp blows on Alexander’s ass, over his knickers.

From the hitch in Alexander’s breath, George can tell it’s made an impression, and he bites down on his own lower lip as he waits, his other hand still pressing down hard on his lower back. There’s a silence, a beat, and then —

“Sir,” Alexander breathes, shifting his hips against the desk, and George shakes his head and smacks him again.

“Listen to me, Alexander,” he murmurs, trying in vain to steady his voice despite the rising excitement he senses between both of them. “This is not for me.” He smacks him again, this time hitting either of his upper thighs, and Alexander stiffens before he gasps and digs both hands into the stacks and piles of documents on the desk. Papers crumple beneath his fingers as George lays into him again, a little more sharply this time, and he’s biting back a grin as he watches Alexander writhe with each blow.

“I — sir, I apologize,” Alexander gasps against the mahogany of the desk. “I wasn’t prepared for this meeting, sir, I was caught off-guard and only reminded at the last minute, if you want to blame anyone, blame James—”

“Excuses are easy, young man,” George says archly, his hand falling a little louder and a little heavier every time. “Apologies are harder. Are you sorry for making me wait?”  
  
“I am, sir,” Alexander groans. _Nine. Ten._ He’s squirming back against George with every blow, and George doesn’t have the time or wherewithal at this point to feel properly ashamed for what it’s doing to him.  
  
Instead, he simply smiles wryly, shifting his position, loosening his hold on the small of Hamilton’s back, unlikely as it seems that he’ll try to bolt. He rubs and kneads at Alexander’s ass through his pants, feeling him slowly relax and his muscles un-tense as he does so. George strokes his lower back with his other hand, runs his fingers over the hem of Alexander’s waistcoat with a tenderness he doesn’t necessarily mean to convey. But it’s there, and there’s no taking it back, and Alexander pauses for a moment before lifting himself up off the desk, turning back to face George with a gravity to his features that wasn’t there before.  
  
“I apologize,” he repeats, “for my candor and my disrespect. Sir,” he adds, almost an afterthought. His eyes flick back down to George’s lips, and the energy between them is almost staticky, charged as the air before a lightening storm, before George leans in and closes the gap again.

Alexander’s arms fly up around his back automatically, and the kissing feels different this time, less of a tease, more intimate. Alexander is still trapped between George and his desk, and George has never felt so much taller, so much more imposing than another person as he tangles fingers through Alexander’s hair. Hamilton kisses like a drowning man, breaking away to gasp for air before pressing another firm kiss to George’s mouth or jaw. His youth is apparent, his enthusiasm almost overbearing, and he’s pressing his hips against George’s again, rolling them up against him and tightening his fingers where they dig into his shirt again. It’s so much, the pressure and the friction and George hasn’t been with a woman, with anyone, in far too long, the stresses of the war proving unfriendly to his marriage — but this is so new, so different, and Alexander seems to know exactly what he’s doing, perching upon the desk and rolling his hips against George’s in a way that betrays his experience.

It’s intense. He’s gasping into Alexander’s mouth, digging fingers into his hair and scalp and tugging, and Alexander’s gasping back, perhaps spurred on by the pain or the sensory overload. And before he knows what’s happening, the tension unravels, and he feels his entire body tighten before he — no, no, it’s too soon, it’s too much, it’s inappropriate, it’s not —

Alexander’s head tips forward to rest against George’s heaving chest and he’s still rubbing against George’s thigh, before his body seizes in ecstasy. He chokes out a string of swears, burying his face in George’s chest for the moment before his entire body drops, sagging against the desk, looking boneless and exhausted and his face slack with his orgasm. George grabs onto the desk himself, hands braced on either side of Hamilton’s hips, holding himself up for fear that he’ll drop to the floor otherwise.

Where does he go from here?

Alexander is still visibly shaken as George braces himself and pulls himself back up to his full height. Because this feels so — 

“This never happened,” George says, clearing his throat as he steps away. Alexander’s hair is a fright, his olive skin flushed bright red, the sparkle in his eyes hardly dulled even with the weight of the moment. He’s holding himself up against the desk, papers crumpled beneath his hands, still breathing heavily as if he’s just outrun a bullet or several. And George is flooded with regret, with shame, as he steps away, brushing his hands off on his thighs as he pulls back, waving the moment on and letting it pass.

Alexander blinks, chewing the inside of his cheek visibly. “Yes, sir.”  
  
“Go home, Alexander,” George mutters. “We’ll talk about this later.”  
  
Alexander busies himself straightening his clothes, brushing the wrinkles out of his own pants. He takes his time and George clears his throat again as he steps back behind his desk, taking his seat again and pulling the stack of papers back to him. The lamp light suddenly feels too dim. He’ll need to light another candle. He’ll need a glass of wine, a glass of brandy, anything to help him focus and move on.  
  
“I’ll send for the rowboat,” Alexander says, and with that he’s out the door, and George watches him go, the tension in his jaw remaining long after he’s gone.


End file.
